


seeing the sky for the stars instead of the void

by the_nerd_youre_looking_for



Series: asking for the stars [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Aziraphale does His Best, Aziraphale has Depression, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Gen, He lied, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Repressing your Emotions is Not A Valid Coping Mechanism, Suicidal Thoughts, and never does, but i will!, dealing with mental illness, he just shoves every emotion into the corner and says he'll deal with it later, he tries his best ok, one day i will write a fic where they both learn good coping mechanisms, that day isnt today, watch me in this one, you know when zira said he was coping in the last fic, you thought i was ex catholic in the crowley fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:17:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_youre_looking_for/pseuds/the_nerd_youre_looking_for
Summary: Aziraphale had sat on the ground until the floodwaters were far above his head and he could feel the pressure of it trying to crush him. He didn't know if it'd taken hours, days, months, for the world to die and he didn't care enough to try. There were corpses floating about and every so often one would bump into him and he'd let loose another bout of tears that mingled undetectably in the salty sea waters.Aziraphale did not need to breath, but his corporeal form had lungs. He knew if he inhaled the water, he'd discorporate. It wasn't truly death but he could at least imagine it was.Companion to "ask me for the stars, they'll be yours"





	seeing the sky for the stars instead of the void

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give Aziraphale's thots on his own depression, because he deserves it

Aziraphale had sat on the ground until the floodwaters were far above his head and he could feel the pressure of it trying to crush him. He didn't know if it'd taken hours, days, months, for the world to die and he didn't care enough to try. There were corpses floating about and every so often one would bump into him and he'd let loose another bout of tears that mingled undetectably in the salty sea waters. 

Aziraphale did not need to breath, but his corporeal form had lungs. He knew if he inhaled the water, he'd discorporate. It wasn't truly death but he could at least imagine it was.

The whole day had been a wreck, if he were to be honest. He'd only just gotten the memo about the giant flood supposed to be wiping out everybody that morning. He might've thought it was a sick sort of joke if Heaven knew how to joke. Aziraphale had been deemed incompetent in Heaven (losing the flaming sword, allowing a demon to tempt Adam and Eve into sin, his general sort of weirdness, the list was endless) and so he'd been stationed a job here on Earth where he was less likely to ruin important things. They knew he would still follow rules, and when he read the words "_This is part of Her plan. These people are sinners. Do not interfere_" written in flowing golden script, he knew he shouldn't interfere. Although, hadn't they all been given free will? Wasn't that the joy of being a human, that one could simply make choices regardless of God's personal opinions on the matter? All the people had done was exert their free will and live their lives. Aziraphale knew better than any angel that they were good people who cared for each other and for their little spot of the world. Did they worship their own gods? Yes, but that was none of anybody's business how they wanted to interpret Her. Did they go to war and kill others? Yes, but not unnecessarily. They did not revel in the bloodshed. When had they done anything that justified massacre? _"These people are sinners_" was the only explanation he received and foolishly he read the letter over and over, hoping for a hidden meaning he'd skimmed over or tiny words on the backside explaining exactly what they had done to offend Her so much. 

But he was not meant to question and he was not meant to want answers, so he was given none. All he could do, under the fear of Falling, was watch the parade of animals file onto the boat and wonder what Noah must be thinking. What was it that set him and his family apart from the others? Did he wish he could bring his friends, his community onto the ark with him? Or was he simply grateful that he, at least, would live? Did he truly trust an indirect message from a God he could never hope to meet over his own witness of the virtue of his people? Aziraphale wanted to march on up the ramp to the boat and demand an answer from him, but he was under strict non-interference rules. And on such a big occasion, Heaven would be watching. 

That odd demon, Crawly, from Eden, he could ask all he'd like. He'd shown up, seemingly ignorant about the devastation that was minutes away, apparently just wanting a chat with Aziraphale. And he was happy to chat, but all Crawly wanted to talk about was "why is this happening" and "can't we do something" and "not the children, you can't" and honestly, Aziraphale didn't know how to answer. He'd only just found out this morning. So he stayed silent and drowned in his own sort of flood. When the rains started, Crawly shot off like a bat out of Hell and started carrying as many kids as he could to the ark. He looked like a blackbird silhouetted against the midday sun (since when was it midday? It felt as if it should be night without any stars or moon or lamp-lights). Heaven was watching, Aziraphale could feel their many eyes boring into him. Angels would watch a demon saving lives, and Aziraphale wondered how they might feel about it. Would they assume it's a fluke of nature, a biological anomaly, would they think that a demon showing such kindness was a _mistake_? Or would they simply rationalize it? Everyone was a sinner, even the youngest of the children, so naturally a demon would want to preserve such ugliness. He realized it would be the latter.

For all his heart and soul ached and screamed at him to do something, help people, get to higher ground, all he could do was drop to the ground and wait for the floods to cover him. Was Crawly watching him give up? Somehow, he didn't think so, he didn't want him to. So he sat there and kept his eyes shut so he wouldn't see the remnants of Heaven's righteousness and cried into the ocean. He knew he was there for days because sometimes the water would get darker and then lighten by small amounts. And then he decided he might as well see how Noah and his family were. There was an anger and a bitterness in him and he _wanted _Noah to be grieving when he found him. He wanted Noah to be crying his heart out over the people he chose not to save, he wanted Noah to feel the same despair he did at the loss of so many innocent lives, he wanted Noah to feel helplessness when he looked into the future. Aziraphale knew he shouldn't wish such pain on a man chosen by God, but he found he had it in him to hate Noah. So hate him he did.

Aziraphale found Noah feasting and laughing with his brothers and wanted to strike him dead. He could've done so easily, he was just outside the door to their mess hall, all he had to do was a quick miracle, a momentary pause in his heartbeat and he'd be dead. He hated Noah so much it terrified him, terrified him into wondering if he might've Fallen after all while he wasn't looking. But Heaven would Fall him for killing God's Chosen One, so Aziraphale satisfied himself on the knowledge that Noah was a mortal man and would die either way and continued roaming the ship. It truly was magnificent, and he might've appreciated it more had the circumstances not been what they were. He could hear the animals making a ruckus down on the lower decks and briefly wondered how anybody could get a second's sleep. Aziraphale might've returned to the bottom of the sea until it went down if he hadn't caught a brief glimpse of fire-red hair in the storage room. A second glance confirmed it to be Crawly, stuffing a sack with any manner of foodstuffs. The demon was frozen, fear dancing in his yellow eyes and Aziraphale realized dimly that he expected some sort of divine retribution for it. But Aziraphale had been told to not interfere, and how was he to know if those orders extended to the demon stealing food for his stowaway children or not? Best not to find out, just in case. So, he winked at Crawly and went on his way. 

He did go back to the bottom of the ocean. The bitter cold was unpleasant but he endured it for that very reason. And he found that discorporation was much less satisfying than he'd wanted it to be.

~*~

A yawning chasm had opened itself in Aziraphale, hungry for answers, always echoing _why? why? why? _off of its walls. It wasn't good for an angel to question The Plan so much, he knew that well, but he couldn't stop himself. In Egypt, the ten plagues fueled the fire. He helped as best as he could, joining the people who went walking long distances for water and making the trek shorter than it usually would, chasing out frogs and locusts, doing what he could to heal the people afflicted with boils. The people would ask him if he was working with another strange man, one in all black and with hair like the sunset, and he would smile as best as he could and say simply that they knew each other. The last plague came, and Aziraphale couldn't stay in Egypt for it. He fled the city once the sun started its decline and ran until he couldn't see the lights of civilization in any direction. Not seeing the murders didn't mean they weren't happening, and he knew that and he felt guilty and horrible for running away. He didn't receive any instructions this time, maybe he could've helped. Maybe he could've talked some sense into the angels or at least attempted to. What he wanted to do was to bury himself deep under the cold mud and sleep for about a millennium, and then he felt guilty about wanting that. If he wanted to help people, he shouldn't be doing stupid and selfish things like that, and he felt even worse because he truly hadn't ever helped anybody. Too petrified of Heaven's retribution if he acted against their desires to do a single thing to ease the suffering of the humans he'd come to love. Aziraphale had been sent down to observe and protect the Earth and he'd been doing a rather awful job of it so far. He wanted to wail and scream and beat the ground and curse everything but he hadn't the energy in him for it. So he stood in the mud and looked at the sky and thought it such a mockery of the grief he felt that there should be stars.

~*~

Jesus died, and Aziraphale found a small comfort in that odd demon, Crowley now, standing besides him. Despite himself, despite everything, he silently wondered what it all had been for. The perpetrator of Original Sin was right next to him, expressing remorse over the Messiah's death. Why should Eve be blamed? Why should humanity be blamed? Why must She put on a performative sacrifice to be able to forgive humanity over a crime none of them possibly could have committed? But as always, deep inside they went and he didn't allow any tears to be shed that night. 

~*~

Being in Rome was horrible. He was sent there on a meaningless task that he couldn't have cared less about, and Aziraphale was simply weary of the world. He could love them all he liked, and Heaven would regard them as little more than ants and humanity would continue to bring about its slow demise. The beautiful Library of Alexandria had been a dream come true for him and for humanity, a place where knowledge would be stored and made easily accessible to any who desired to learn. Aziraphale had been in there almost every day and night since it was built and what did the humans do? They burned it to the ground as a sign of conquest with no foresight to their actions. Aziraphale had been inside when it burned and considered letting himself burn with it. What did he care? He would just get a new body and he'd be back as soon as the stupid paperwork was filled out. But in the end, he'd left through a back exit. The archangels weren't very sympathetic to emotional turmoil and grief. In fact, Aziraphale often thought that they felt emotions were a sorry side effect of being a human. 

So, Rome. It was horrible and all he wanted to do was to be by himself and finish up his assignment as soon as possible so he could get back to his ugly clay hut miles away from any city and just be by himself. He loved humans, but to be around them for so long, so often, drained him of everything. Aziraphale was lonely with himself, lonely with angels, and lonely with humans. He'd accepted it long ago, that he was just meant to be alone and that maybe he should follow in the archangels' footsteps and leave the pesky emotions business to humanity. But if he did, he would miss out on the occasional joy he finds, the wonder he feels in innocent things such as childbirth or a beautiful flower, the contentment of sitting up by a good fire and reading to oneself, the love of when someone does something so little or good or silly and he can't help but love them. But if he could go a day without wondering _why must this happen, why must everyone suffer, why must I suffer, what is it all for, will it truly all just end_ he thinks it might be worth it.

He spends one more day in Rome after his job was complete. Truth be told, he's grown attached to the city and there's something to be said about being alone in a crowd of people. Aziraphale expects solitude again in the tavern, so he settles down to play a game by himself. It's not a game that's really meant to be played alone, but he makes do and does his best to find some sort of entertainment from it. He's nearly just started when that familiar voice again floats across the room, and Aziraphale can't help but look. And there's Crowley, with hair cut severely short, eyes covered, and sporting a glum look on his face. It just makes his heart ache more for his...friend? Acquaintance? Business partner? Of _course _he should be upset, they'd gone through the exact same things, hadn't they?

_Don't you always wish to help? _Something whispered in his mind as he got up to go say hello. _Cheer him up some, finally do something right and good_. So Aziraphale makes himself smile and becomes a man happily surprised to see an old acquaintance, and when Crowley does finally smile, truthfully, he feels like the disguise isn't nearly as restricting.

~*~

The worst thing isn't when the angels do things in Her name. It's when the humans do.

Crusaders march onward to fight a pointless fight and slaughter innocent people on their way. They try again and again for absolutely nothing, for control of a city that's more symbolic than of any actual value to them, and they die and kill and murder and pillage and rape and they claim it's all in God's name. That they will be granted a place in Heaven for it. Aziraphale doesn't know if they will or not, Heaven seems to have a twisted sense of justice and righteousness. 

He calls out to them. _Will you reward these people?_ He prays silently to Her. _Or will you send them to Hell for their crimes? Which sense of justice will you pick today? Is it now alright because they do it for you? Or does that make it all the more detestable? Tell me, which side will you be on today? _

Aziraphale half expects to be struck down on the spot. He isn't. Not for the first time, he takes a blade and lets his anger out on his own body.

~*~

There wasn't much that sparked it. All he was doing was having a quick snack before he went out to meet with Crowley that afternoon, now in a small cabin in the woods. They were together more often, and Aziraphale had hoped to feel less lonely around him, but he felt probably more so. It wasn't as if he could just go up and tell the demon absolutely _everything, _the poor dear has enough to deal with already. But it's also never a chore to be with him, so Aziraphale enjoys it and acts the happy man. And he decides, suddenly, that he doesn't _want _to be faking it anymore, he wants the real thing. He'd probably wanted it for a while and just not seen it, because the intensity of it was of something that had been festering away for a long time. He feels like he ought to say it, and so he does.

"I am _tired_," he whispers, "of just pretending to be happy. And I don't want to just be happy occasionally and sad the rest of the time. I want to really just _be _happy and I am going to be." He turns his face to the sky, fists clenched at his side as if daring Her to come down and challenge this. She doesn't. There's a sort of exhilaration that came with his declaration and he smiles and wiggles a bit and feels that the great mountain he's got to overcome is just a dirt hill. He feels like, just with those words, he can get over all of it. 

~*~

As it turns out, words do not equal results. Aziraphale spent the next two weeks after his little revelation still bogged down by the eternity of everything and with no better ideas on how to get rid of it. It was so overpowering sometimes that he was angry, with himself mostly. He was angry that he was so weighted down by everything when other angels seemed to have no trouble ignoring everything and dismissing it as just another part of Her great ineffable plan. He was angry that Crowley, his new sort-of friend, was very clearly going through the same troubles he was and he ought to be helping him through it instead of being stuck in the mud with his own problems. He was angry that he could be so selfish as to not even try to do anything to help his friend. Aziraphale tried to cheer Crowley up on especially bad days, inviting him to lunch or using a small miracle so that something in his day would go perfectly the way he wanted it to, but little things like that weren't going to work in the long run. He knew Crowley needed to know that there was somebody he could share his thoughts and feelings with, but with this small friendship between them being dangerous as it was, any bigger shows of trust would be almost a death sentence. 

So, Aziraphale is stuck trying to find himself a way out of the mud. He promises himself that when he does, he'll be able to help Crowley better, but for now he's simply unable to (which gave rise to another wave of frustration and despair, but it's the truth). So, he devises a plan. He'll think of one thing that day that made him feel happy. That one moment will add to many more moments that he can reflect upon when he's feeling down to show him why he ought to be happy instead, and it should cheer him up. It sounded reasonable enough. 

His first time trying it was miserable. He hadn't left his house very much that week, so there was nothing for that day, week, or even month, as it had been a particularly bleak one. So he expanded the limits to the year. And...yes, there was something. Some few months ago, Aziraphale had given a man a few coins to help him pay for some food at the market. He had smiled at him, and that smile had carried Aziraphale through the day. 

So there it was. He thought about that moment, and while it didn't evoke the same spark of joy it had, he felt a little lighter. Aziraphale had clung to that feeling, that moment, until he found another thing to be glad about, and another and another. He had seen starving people devour food as if it were the best meal of their life, regardless of the fact that they would be sick afterwards. And he felt like a man starved of joy, chasing down any small fleeting glimpse of it and pinning it down and pressing it close to him. 

~*~

It wasn't a very good process, as far as processes go. For one, he had to find good things in each day and there were quite a few days that were absolute shit. Secondly, it meant he had to remember to do it, and Aziraphale would forget his own flaming sword if he hadn't given it away. In fact, just a while after he had given it to Adam, he forgot he'd done so and was quite confused that it wasn't in its usual place in his broom closet. Aziraphale credits himself on being very clever and logical (self-confidence was a thing that took him a while to master) and this happiness procedure was nothing if not immensely flawed. 

Even so, he kept at it. There were certainly times when sadness was inconvenient and not conducive to a good work ethic. He had people he needed to help, jobs he needed to do, meetings he had to go to, and time he had to spend with Crowley. Aziraphale found it easier to spot good things in each day as time went on, or else he expanded his definition of happiness. It was hard, and sometimes he was given no choice but to be sad. In those scenarios, he would retreat to wherever he was living at that point and get it out of his system before returning to the land of the living. It would do nobody any good to see him like that, and his entire job was to do good. 

So, when London burned and people died, and the upper class's deaths were seen as superior to the working class's and were the only ones written down, when he was told to do nothing about it, when he witnessed his old friend ushering people out of burning buildings to safety while he was stuck doing nothing at all to help, he thought very hard on the fact that the sunset was lovely two weeks ago. 

When the lower class French people revolted against the wealthy, and he was told that the peasantry was in the wrong and that they were supposed to be obeying their natural leaders, as if he were unable to think for himself, when he could see just _why_ they revolted and sympathized with them, when they killed an innocent girl who was only married to their king against her will, he remembered that the French made wonderful crepes and made plans to pop over and grab some.

When two World Wars broke out within decades of each other, such a short time. The first so utterly pointless, just a mess of leveraged power and alliances, that only served to advance warfare, kill people who needn't have ever died, and traumatize an entire generation of people. The second so absolutely devastating and accumulating such a pointless waste of human life, simply a show of hatred and bigotry and which governments cared about their fellow humans at all. Both he was told to sit quietly through and perform some minor miracles, which he absolutely did not do. He volunteered as a field nurse, helping the wounded make miraculous recoveries from their wounds. Some he couldn't save. He thought often of sitting by the fireplace with a good book and a warm cup of tea. 

~*~

1967 was definitely an interesting year. For most of it, he did his usual thing. Reading, scaring away customers, eating good food, and running the occasional odd job for Heaven. Aziraphale doesn't remember most of it, if he's being honest. Living for a while means you tend to blur the days and weeks and months and years and decades if nothing interesting happens. He remembers one night, if only for the intense feeling of dread. 

He gave Crowley holy water. Of course, he'd seen the very obvious signs up around SoHo and, instead of being pleasantly endeared by his demon's little show for just a little attention, he panicked. A hundred years ago, they had discussed holy water, and, well. Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley was like. He could feel a loss of demonic energy every so often, usually when Crowley had been overwhelmed or stressed. He knew of his tendency to sleep centuries away. He could see the scars in warmer weather or when Crowley's sleeves hiked up (although, truth be told he had similar scars, but his knowledge of Crowley's mental state was the exact reason why he never let them show). Aziraphale never brought it up, since it wasn't exactly the thing to discuss in polite conversation, and he wasn't ever sure how Crowley would take it. So he knew giving him holy water was a very bad idea, even if he never intended to use it for suicide. He felt, somehow, like he would be enabling him to do something terrible, and yet. There he was, in Crowley's car, handing over a tartan thermos of the very thing that could be used for his ultimate demise. Something in him said it would be alright, that he would only use it for self defense, but the larger and more anxiety-driven something was screaming at full volume. 

Aziraphale had said a few things, then. Nothing much, just little things. He wanted to say a lot more. Things along the lines of _"please don't leave me, tell me anything you want to, I am always here for you, I love you, don't leave me please, I couldn't take it if you weren't with me, I don't know if I would last a day without you, anything you need just tell me and it'll be yours, I love you, I love you, I love you"_. But, naturally, these types of things can't be said. So he didn't. And when he got home, he thought intensely of just how lovely that one song had sounded, even though he couldn't remember the name or the words or the melody. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, leave a comment and/or kudos!


End file.
